Strange New World
by Malarkay
Summary: When Rumpelstiltskin follows Baelfire to a land without magic, he discovers that this new world is not as mundane as he had imagined. When he is separated from his son and imprisoned in a place devoid of all hope, he learns that you don't have to be under a curse to be deprived of a happy ending. AU. A OUaT/AHS: Asylum crossover. Prior knowledge of AHS not required.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I am not Adam Horowitz, Eddy Kitsis, or Ryan Murphy. If I was, I probably wouldn't be posting here.**

**This story contains the following: Sexual assault; mention of rape; caning; depictions of mental illness; mention of electroconvulsive therapy; mention of lobotomy; mention/depictions of WWII war violence/the Holocaust/Nazis; human experimentation; cannibalistic mutants; mention of aliens/alien abduction; demonic possession; mention of mutilation; racism; sexism/slut-shaming; homophobia; ableist language; homicide; suicide; general violence, mayhem, and death. Reader discretion is advised.**

**Prologue**

Rumpelstiltskin followed as Baelfire led him deeper into the forest. Excitement and hope radiated off the boy, the very air rang with the power of it. It set his teeth on edge and made his stomach twist itself into knots. The Dark One yearned to lash out, to smother the light with His darkness, to laugh as He watched it flicker and die.

But this was his son. His son! Rumpelstiltskin would not, could not, disappoint him. And so he spoke, his voice cutting through the thickness between them, drowning out the dark thoughts, "What kind of world is this we're going to? What kind of world is without magic?"

Baelfire turned to him, his face determined, "A better one."

He stared at his son for a long moment. He knew he was doing a poor job of keeping his doubts from showing, but Bae seemed unconcerned with his hesitation. He trusted him to keep his word. Turning, Bae tossed the bean onto the ground.

Before his eyes, the bean transformed, growing into a swirling green vortex. It grasped at his ankles, promising to unmake him, to pull him into the ground and leave him buried so deep that there would be no way out. He took several hasty steps backward. He knew this was a plot to get rid of him! Fairies were never to be trusted!

"It's a trick! It'll tear us apart!" he yelled over the wind, trying to get Bae to see reason.

"It's not! It'll be okay, I promise! We have to go through!"

"No, no, I don't think I can!"

Did Bae truly not understand? Did he trust the Blue Fairy so much that he could not recognize his own demise when it was staring him in the face? Baelfire grabbed his hand and leapt for the portal, oblivious to the danger.

Rumpelstiltskin clutched his hand tighter, bracing himself to keep them from falling through. Despite his best efforts, he lost his footing as Bae's weight dragged him forward. Desperately fumbling for his dagger, he managed to plunge it deep into the ground, stopping their inexorable slide towards the portal. But Bae was too close to the edge. Rumpelstiltskin wasn't going to be able to hold on to him much longer.

"Papa, what are you doing? It won't stay open long! Let's go!"

"I can't!"

"Papa, it's the only way we can be together!"

"No, I can't!"

Suddenly, Bae's confusion turned to anger. He screamed at him, his voice breaking in his rage, "You coward! You promised! Don't break our deal!" Bae began to struggle against his grasp. For one brief, sickening moment, he considered letting Bae go. He could at least save himself.

No!

No, whatever fate awaited his boy, he couldn't leave him to face it alone. Closing his eyes, he let go of the dagger, and they tumbled through the portal, together.

Awareness came back to Rumpelstiltskin slowly. There was a dull throbbing in his head, an ache in his leg that he had grown used to living without, and he felt drained. Powerless.

Distantly, he could make out words. Someone was speaking. Slowly, he sat up and opened his eyes. He instantly regretted his decision when a light, brighter than any lamp or candle he had ever seen, shined into his eyes. He shrank back, shielding his face from the glare.

"Easy there," came the voice again.

"Bae?"

"The kid? He's fine."

He opened his eyes again, cautiously. It was still dark out, except for the bright white light that illuminated the patch of road where he was sitting. He squinted over towards the source, which appeared to be twin lamps mounted onto some sort of...giant box? On top of the box, more lights flashed, a dizzying combination of red and blue. He looked away from them, and towards the man who crouched beside him. He was wearing some sort of uniform, a fact Rumpelstiltskin did not find particularly comforting.

"Where is this?"

The uniformed man frowned, "Not far outside of Leeds."

Rumpelstiltskin's incomprehension must have shown, because the man continued, "Hampshire County? Massachusetts? Where you from, buddy? Scotland?"

"The Frontlands."

The man was quiet for a moment, before standing and rubbing his forehead. "Christ," he muttered. "You gotta be kidding me..." He glanced across the road, and Rumpelstiltskin followed his gaze to where another uniformed man stood talking with Bae. Bae was seated on top of another light box, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. "Hey, Walsh, you getting anything useful out of the kid?"

"He says his name is Baelfire," the other man, Walsh, yelled back. "Your guy's his father."

The man looked back down at him, "You got a name?"

"Rumpelstiltskin."

The man snorted, "Got a first name?"

"That's the only name I have."

"Huh, never heard anything like it."

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. It wasn't a very common name in his world, either.

"So, what's with the Halloween costume? A little early for that, don't you think?"

Rumpelstiltskin could only give him a puzzled look. He felt it was better that he didn't say too much, at this point. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that fitting into this world would not be as simple as he had hoped. The man just shook his head wearily at his silence.

"Hey, Harrison, you should get a load of this kid's story!" Walsh called over, laughter evident in his voice. "Says a fairy gave him a magic bean that opened a portal between their world and ours, and that's how they got here!"

Rumpelstiltskin winced.

'_Oh, Bae, why'd you tell him that?'_

Harrison grinned, "He didn't trade the family cow for it, did he?"

Rumpelstiltskin frowned. He was used to enduring people's derision. He was not so tolerant of them mocking his boy. "Don't you dare laugh at him," he warned. He may not have his powers, here, but that didn't mean he had to swallow his pride and put up with bullies. Not anymore.

Harrison's grin disappeared, "You don't buy this fairy bullshit, do you?"

"My son is not a liar."

"Christ," Harrison said, again. Rumpelstiltskin could only assume that was some sort of expletive people used, here. He would have to store that away for future use. Anything that helped him seem as if he belonged here was useful.

Harrison beckoned Walsh over, "These two are certifiable. I'm not dealing with this craziness, tonight."

"So, what? We let them go?"

Harrison frowned thoughtfully, "Yes. No. I dunno. They're nuts. We let 'em go, and they wander off and hurt someone? That's our asses."

"So what do you wanna do?"

"How do you feel about driving the kid to Stetson School, tonight?"

"Aww, man, are you serious? That's over an hour away!"

"Yeah, I'm serious. Or would you rather take this one to..."

"No! No, I'm not going there at night. That place creeps me out."

Harrison laughed, "Coward. Stetson, then?"

"Yeah, fine." Walsh started walking back to Bae, "C'mon, kid, I'm gonna take you to some people who can help you."

"No!"

The realization that these men intended to take Bae away from him propelled him into action. Grabbing Harrison by the front of the shirt, he used him to haul himself to his feet and launch himself at Walsh. The other man had only taken a few steps, leaving him close enough that his momentum allowed him to tackle him from behind before his leg gave out. He wasn't sure who was more surprised by his success, himself or Walsh. But his victory was short lived as Harrison grabbed him by his collar and hauled him off of the man.

He fell onto his back, raising a hand in surrender as Harrison drew the club he had holstered on his belt. "Please, you can't take my boy," he said, scrambling back as Harrison raised the club.

Bae came running over, but was restrained by Walsh, who had quickly regained his feet. "Papa! Don't hurt him!"

But the time for words was over.

The club came down. There was an explosion of pain, and his vision grew fuzzy. He was vaguely aware of the club coming at him a second time, and then...


	2. Welcome to Briarcliff

"_It's alright. Let me help you."_

_Rumpelstiltskin looked up into Zoso's face, the Dark One's face. He was no longer fooled by the glamour of humanity, or by the seemingly helping hand he offered._

_He shook his head. "You lied to me."_

"_I helped you."_

"_You tricked me!"_

"_You need me," the Dark One insisted. "You are nothing without me."_

"_You're wrong. Bae believes in me. In me! Not you!"_

"_What do _you_ believe?"_

_Rumpelstiltskin had no answer for him._

_The Dark One smirked, amused. "That's what I thought. Get up."_

_He shook his head again._

"_You don't have a choice. Get up!" The Dark One grabbed his arm, hauling him up. _

Rumpelstiltskin jerked awake as rough hands dragged him upright. "Get up!" Harrison ordered, all hint of friendliness gone from his voice.

His head swam as he looked around, confused and disoriented. He wasn't in the same place. Where before there had been nothing but trees and empty road, now a building loomed before him, a dark shadow against the night sky, large and imposing.

Harrison slammed the door of the light box, and Rumpelstiltskin realized for the first time that it must be this world's version of a carriage. He didn't have time to contemplate how such a thing could work without the aid of horses or magic before Harrison spoke again, "Move!"

He was propelled forward. Dizzy, his hands shackled behind his back, Harrison's hold on his arm was the only thing that kept him on his feet as they ascended the front steps.

Harrison rapped sharply on the door. Despite the late hour, the door swung open, revealing a man who looked to be roughly the same age as Rumpelstiltskin. He, too, wore a uniform, though it was different from Harrison's.

"Hey, Frank, got another one for ya."

Frank eyed Rumpelstiltskin, sizing him up before stepping aside. He stumbled as Harrison pushed him across the threshold, falling to his knees.

"He doesn't look good. What's the story with him?" Frank asked.

"Found him and his son in the middle of the highway. When they were asked how they got there, they both seemed to believe some bullshit story about magic beans and fairies, so I figured they needed some psychiatric help. When we went to separate them, our guy here got violent and had to be subdued."

Together, they hauled him back up, supporting him between them. "Well, he can barely stand. He'll need to get checked out. Help me take him to Dr. Arden," Frank said.

Rumpelstiltskin kept his head down and his mouth shut as they walked. He knew it was of no use to try and talk to Harrison, and Frank seemed to be of his ilk. He'd get nowhere with either of these men. He hoped that this Dr. Arden would be more sympathetic to his situation. If he could convince him that he wasn't insane, they would let him go, and he could find Bae.

They stepped into a room, and Rumpelstiltskin finally looked up. The room was dimly lit, like the rest of the building had been. The walls were grey brick, reminiscent of the Duke's castle. Moonlight shone into the room from three arched windows along one wall, illuminating a desk. Behind the desk sat the man Rumpelstiltskin assumed was Dr. Arden. He was an older man, bald, with a mustache and a short white beard that left all but his chin bare. Rumpelstiltskin found that if he tried to focus on him for too long, there seemed to be two of him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few long seconds, trying unsuccessfully to will away the persistent dizziness.

It took a minute for Arden to acknowledge them. He took his time as he finished jotting down whatever thoughts they were interrupting in a small notebook he had laid out in front of him. Finally, he looked up, and his eyes ran over each of them in turn before settling expectantly on Frank.

"I know it's late, Doctor, but since you haven't gone home, yet, could you examine a new patient? He might have a concussion," Frank said.

"And we're going to need a diagnosis for him, before his commitment hearing. I'll get the paperwork started and bring it by in a few days," Harrison added.

Arden stood and walked around his desk, coming to a stop right in front of him. A good deal shorter than the other man, Rumpelstiltskin had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. Arden fished a small metal cylinder out of the pocket of his long white coat and, with a soft click, a bright pinprick of light began to glow from one end. Rumpelstiltskin looked away as the other man attempted to shine the light into his eyes. Arden gripped his chin and forced his head back up. He shined the light back and forth from one eye to the other, watching carefully. What, exactly, he was looking for, Rumpelstiltskin couldn't say.

Arden put the light away and held up a finger. "Keep your head still and follow the movement of my finger with your eyes." He began to move his finger back and forth, up and down, and Rumpelstiltskin did as he was told. At the same time, Arden began to question him.

"Do you have a headache?"

"Yes."

"Dizziness?"

"Yes."

"Nausea?"

"No."

Arden nodded and took a step back. "I'll keep him here for observation, and to run some more tests. Take him to my lab, strip him, and strap him to the examination table."

"No, please," Rumpelstiltskin protested. "I can't stay here."

They ignored him as they ushered him through an arched doorway that led to the lab. It was a claustrophobic, octagonal room dominated by the aforementioned examination table. White cupboards and curio cabinets lined the walls, making the space feel even smaller. As Arden followed them, he flipped a switch on the wall, causing the strange lamp that hung above the table to flicker on.

Harrison uncuffed his hands and divested him of his heavy, robe-like overcoat. Rumpelstiltskin was happy to be free of the cumbersome thing. He'd have a better chance of staving them off in shirtsleeves. When Frank reached for him, he jerked away. "No!" he repeated himself, more forcefully this time, as he limped backwards, away from the two uniformed men. "I don't belong here," he said, addressing Arden. "My son needs me. I'm all he has."

Arden's face remained coolly unsympathetic. "Unfortunately for you and your son, it is not up to the patients to decide whether they belong here or not." Striding up to Rumpelstiltskin, he shoved him back into the waiting arms of the other two.

He struggled against them as they stripped off his shirt and dragged him towards the table. He managed to free his arm from Harrison's grip and lashed out, dealing the man a glancing blow to the face. Harrison responded with a sharp kick to his right leg that dropped him immediately, giving the two men the opening they needed to haul him up and onto the table, where they made short work of the task of securing his wrists.

Being ignored, manhandled, and restrained was too much. This was not the way coming to this new land was supposed to go! They _had_ been tricked! That conniving fairy had shamelessly used his son against him! He redoubled his efforts against his captors, kicking at them with his uninjured leg, pulling at his restraints and screaming at them to release him. He was the Dark One! They would regret making him suffer this indignity! They would regret keeping him from his boy! He would make them beg for death!

Despite his best efforts, they were finally able to get him out of boots and trousers. Fastening the padded cuffs around his ankles, they stepped back. He made one last attempt to pull free of the restraints, straining until he nearly dislocated a shoulder, before going limp, exhausted. The first thing he noticed, as rationality slowly returned to him, was that he was weeping. He closed his eyes, silently berating himself as he pulled himself back together. The second thing he noticed, when he opened his eyes again, was that the three men were looking at him as if they now had no doubts that he was, in fact, insane.

How much had he said aloud? Too much, he could tell. What was he thinking? He wasn't the Dark One here. He had just hurt his case.

"Sorry," he told them, feebly attempting some damage control. "I'm sorry."

Harrison scoffed and shook his head. "Good luck with this guy," he said with a nod to Frank. With one last glance at Rumpelstiltskin, he left. Frank crossed his arms, not looking like he planned on going anywhere anytime soon, but Arden waved him off.

"Don't you have rounds to make?"

Frank eyed Arden with an almost suspicious frown, but nodded. "I'll let Sister Jude know we have a new patient."

Arden's answering smirk was so subtle that Rumpelstiltskin thought he might just be imagining it. "You do that." Once Frank was out the door, Arden turned his attention back to Rumpelstiltskin. "What is your name?"

"Rumpelstiltskin."

Arden stared at him silently for a moment, before retrieving a too-white sheet of parchment from a drawer and writing something down.

"What drugs have you taken in the last 48 hours?"

"What?"

"What drugs have you ingested recently?" Arden repeated, sounding annoyed at having to do so. "LSD? Mescaline? Psilocybin?"

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, already tired of not understanding half of what this world seemed to take for granted.

Arden took more notes before setting down his pen and rolling a metal cart on wheels over to the table. Picking up a length of strange rope, Arden tied it around Rumpelstiltskin's upper arm. It had an odd texture, and was uncomfortably tight, but he refused to complain. Next, the crook of his elbow was swabbed with something cold. What sort of bizarre ritual was being performed on him? When Arden picked up an object that looked like a glass vial with a needle attached to it, Rumpelstiltskin jerked away, or tried to. Bound as he was, it didn't get him very far. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Drawing blood. I suggest you lie still."

Rumpelstiltskin grew suspicious. First he wanted his name, now he wanted his blood? This was supposedly a land without magic, yet this man acted like a seasoned practitioner of the dark arts. Acting on his suspicions, Rumpelstiltskin tried to draw upon his magic to toss the man aside. Nothing happened. Perhaps there really wasn't magic in this land. Or perhaps his magic was being blocked, somehow. He wasn't ready to reject that possibility. "Why do you need my blood?"

"To test you for drugs or diseases that could be the cause of your mental imbalance," Arden answered, jabbing the needle into his arm.

Arden filled up the vial with his blood. But instead of stopping there, he swapped out the first vial for a second one. Rumpelstiltskin frowned uncertainly. If it was black magic that Arden wanted his blood for, a few drops would have sufficed. After filling the second one, he started on a third. Rumpelstiltskin looked away as he began to feel queasy. How many vials did the man plan to fill? What if he took too much?

Before his thoughts could turn too dark, he felt Arden untie the rope from around his arm. He looked back in time to see him withdraw the needle and press a small ball of fluff to the puncture wound, holding it in place for a moment before securing it with a thin white strip that stuck to his skin.

"Are you done?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, watching as Arden went to rummage through a drawer.

"No," Arden responded, finding what he was looking and moving to a cabinet that was lit from the inside. Rumpelstiltskin couldn't see what he was doing, as Arden had his back turned towards him, but soon enough he closed the cabinet door and returning to his side. He was carrying another needle, smaller than the last. With a quick swab of his forearm, he pricked him with the needle. It went much quicker than the blood draw, and he applied no bandage afterwards.

"What was that?"

"Tuberculin test."

Rumpelstiltskin looked at the wheal the needle had raised on his arm, curious, "Did I pass?"

Arden shook his head. "It will be two days before I can read the results," he said, speaking more to Rumpelstiltskin's arm than his face. He sounded distracted, and he was frowning. He ran a finger searchingly over his upper arm, before walking around the table and conducting a similar search on his other arm. "Where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," Rumpelstiltskin answered warily, remembering Harrison's reaction when he asked him that question.

"Do not play games with me."

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated. What was the place Harrison had guessed him to be from? He closed his eyes, thinking back. "Scotland."

"What part of Scotland?"

"I'm from a small village. I doubt you've heard of it."

"And do they not believe in smallpox vaccinations in this village of yours?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You lack a vaccination scar."

"Ah," he said, thinking fast. "No, we don't believe in vaccination. It's a barbaric practice."

The look on Arden's face suggested that he might have been better off not saying anything.

"I'm curious as to how you're here, if you aren't up to date on your immunizations."

Rumpelstiltskin breathed a sigh of relief. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. I don't belong here."

"I mean here in this country. Immigration laws are quite stringent when it comes to public health and safety."

Rumpelstiltskin didn't know how to respond, and so he didn't. Once Arden realized he wasn't going to, he sighed. Turning his attention back to his piece of parchment, he began to write again. "I'm ordering a standard battery of immunizations for you. After tonight, you are to be quarantined in the infirmary. Once you are current on your vaccinations, and assuming your test results come back negative, you'll be allowed out amongst the other patients."

Arden covered him with a thin sheet. "You may sleep, but I'll be rousing you throughout the night." Without waiting for a response, he disappeared back into his office, leaving Rumpelstiltskin alone.

Rumpelstiltskin lie awake for a long time. Arden hadn't doused the overhead light when he left, and he couldn't stop dwelling on his current predicament. The more he thought about his situation, the more hopeless he felt. How was he supposed to convince these people he was sane, when he didn't know what sanity looked like in this world?

Eventually he drifted unwillingly into a fitful sleep.

_He was back in his village. _

_But he wasn't safe._

_The sky overhead was a dark, stormy grey. _

_Icy rain poured down from the heavens, turning the ground into a churning, muddy quagmire._

_A green tornado tore a path of destruction through the village. Lightning flashed within the cyclone like the beating heart of a beast._

_It was heading straight for him._

_He tried to run, but it was impossible. He sank deeper and deeper into the muck with each step._

_He threw himself to the ground, clawing at the mud, trying to find purchase so that he could pull himself forward. _

_It was futile._

_The storm was nearly upon him._

_He was going to die._

_The wind ripped at his hair, his cloak._

_He could smell the lightning in the air._

_He could feel the sharp sting as someone slapped him in the face._

_He…._

He woke to Arden standing over him.

"You are a difficult man to awaken," Arden said critically. "I was beginning to think that letting you sleep was a mistake." Consulting a device strapped to his arm, Arden took hold of Rumpelstiltskin's wrist. After a moment, he frowned. "Your heart rate is elevated."

"Dreams," he explained.

Arden didn't reply. Apparently satisfied with the fact that Rumpelstiltskin was still alive and capable of being woken, he turned his attention to tidying his lab. He began picking up the clothes that the uniformed men had left laying on the floor. Folding them neatly, he began to carry them back to his office.

"What are you doing?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. "Those are mine."

Arden paused, half turning to face him. "You won't need them here. They'll be put into storage."

Rumpelstiltskin frowned. It wasn't the clothes he was worried about. The people he had met so far had made it clear that those did not fit into this world. But he had brought gold, so that he and Bae would have something to start their new lives with. If it was lost or stolen, they'd be left with nothing.

"They'll be safe? They'll be returned to me, when I leave here?"

"If you leave, yes, they'll be returned."

"When."

Arden gave a cold smile, inclined his head, and left him alone once more.

Despite himself, it did not take long to drift back to sleep.

_He was in a pitch black room._

"_Papa!"_

_His son was calling for him. He sounded frightened._

_He limped forward a step, hands outstretched before him, groping for something…anything…that could help him find his way. _

_Another step._

_Another._

"_Papa, please!"_

"_I'm trying, Bae!"_

_On and on he went, through the black void. Time seemed to drag on forever, but no matter how long he searched, he seemed to draw no closer to Bae._

"_Please, son, I'm trying to find you, but I…I need your help! Where are you?"_

_The only answer he received was his son's increasingly desperate cries. They rose in pitch and intensity until they were no more than tortured, wordless screams._

When he woke, he was the one screaming. Arden had a hand on his chest, holding him down. Another needle was in his other hand, and once he noticed Rumpelstiltskin was awake and no longer struggling against him, he stuck him with it, depressing the plunger at the end. "This is a sedative. It should put you into a dreamless sleep."

It didn't take long for the effects of the sedative to kick in. His whole body began to feel heavy. He tried to tell Arden that he didn't want to sleep anymore, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. The world shifted in and out of focus as he struggled to speak. With fading screams and his own unvoiced protests echoing through his mind, he was dragged back down into darkness.

…

Dr. Arden returned to his desk, retaking his seat and scowling down at his notes. He had been on the verge of a breakthrough when his newest patient began carrying on, interrupting his train of thought. Now, as he stared at the formula before him, he realized that the epiphany he had been so close to grasping had vanished. His grand experiment, the culmination of his life's work, was no closer to being perfected now than it had been before.

He yanked off his reading glasses and closed his journal, tossing it aside in a pique.

The book skidded across the desk, nudging the pile of clothes he had set on the corner with just enough force to send them over the edge. They slid to the ground with a rustle of cloth and, less expectedly, the distinct clink of metal against metal.

Curiously, he rose and retrieved the coat from the floor, looking it over. There were two outer pockets. He checked each one, but came up empty. Examining the coat closer, he discovered a pocket sewn into the interior. He reached into it and fished out a large leather coin pouch.

Setting the coat aside, he loosened the purse strings and shook a few coins into his hand. They were the size of a half dollar, stamped with markings he did not recognize, and appeared to be gold.

Suspicious of the authenticity of the coins, he found an old spot plate in one of his drawers and dragged a coin across it. A distinctive gold streak was left behind on the ceramic.

Curious, indeed.

What was a madman doing with a pouch full of gold coins?

Carefully, he dumped the entire contents of the pouch onto his desk.

For a moment he simply stared at the coins. Then his gaze shifted to the empty pouch, puzzled. The pile of gold that sat before him was simply too large for the purse that had held it. He was quite certain of that. And yet, somehow, it had.

He counted out the coins. By his estimate, there was enough there to live a moderately comfortable life for a year, perhaps a little longer.

He glanced towards his lab. The patient was proving to be quite the enigma. He didn't believe his tale of fairies, of course. That was ridiculous. But there was something strange about the man. He was a mystery that he fully intended to unravel.

He returned the coins to the pouch and tucked it away in the back of his desk drawer, for safekeeping.

…

Rumpelstiltskin woke with his head throbbing. He groggily opened his eyes to discover daylight streaming through the barred window above. Wincing, he closed his eyes again and raised a hand to his forehead, realizing as he did so that he was no longer tied down. Carefully, he opened his eyes once more, and slowly pushed himself up until he was sitting. He swayed dizzily, but managed to stay upright and look around.

He had been moved.

A row of narrow cots lined the walls on either side of the long room he found himself in. His was the only bed occupied. Indeed, he appeared to be the only one in the room, at all. A tall metal pole on wheels stood nearby. Perfect. Standing, he carefully made his way to it, grabbing hold. It wasn't as stable as his walking stick, but it would do.

Looking down at himself, he found that someone had dressed him in a thin, short sleep shirt that did little to maintain decency. Sighing, he decided it would have to do. But after taking a few steps towards the door, he realized that the shirt was left hanging open in the back, with no way to close it. What a world! No, he decided after all, this would not do. He changed course for the bank of cabinets set behind a large desk. Rummaging through the drawers, he found another gown, which he put on backwards over the first. It was a start, at least. He searched some more, but couldn't find any trousers.

Unfortunately, his quest for clothes left him far wearier than it should. Whatever Arden had given him to sleep must not have fully worn off, yet. Annoyed by his own weakness, he took a seat at the desk. He would rest for a moment, he decided, and then find his clothes and a way out of this place.

Resting his head in his hands, his eyes fell on what looked to be the pages of an oversized book, minus the cover. Curiously, he flipped back through the strange book until he reached the first page. The title was emblazoned prominently across the top: Daily Hampshire Gazette. Directly below that, in smaller lettering, it read: Northampton, Massachusetts. Thursday, October 22, 1964.

As he skimmed the book, he realized that it was filled with stories of important current events, several of them accompanied by drawings so realistic that he wondered how the artist had managed such a feat. What a brilliant concept!

Each individual story was prefaced by a descriptive title:

Heads of State Gather Today for Funeral of President Hoover

Red China Rejects Nuclear Test Ban Treaty

Massachusetts Manhunt Over; Bloody Face Apprehended

Eagerly, he rolled the pages up like a scroll. He would take the news reporting book with him, to help him learn more about this land. With it in one hand, and clutching his makeshift walking staff for support in the other, he stood and headed for the door. He had only made it halfway, however, when a young woman entered.

She wore a modest black dress with a white collar, and a similar black and white head covering that left only her blonde fringe loose. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, startled, and he could feel his face flush. He certainly wasn't properly attired to be in mixed company!

"You…you shouldn't be up!" she told him, obviously trying for a firm tone, but not quite managing it.

"It's alright," he said, his voice hoarse, making the words come out harsher than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm feeling much better, and I wouldn't want to impose any further." He took another step forward, and the woman raised a forestalling hand.

"Please just take a seat, and Sister Jude will be by shortly to meet with you." She shooed him towards the bed he had abandoned, keeping herself positioned between him and the door.

"I don't want to take a seat," he told her, his words slow and deliberate as he tried to keep his anger in check. He was tired of these people telling him what to do. "And I don't want to meet with Sister Jude. What I want is to get my belongings and be on my way."

He advanced on her as he spoke. He knew he wasn't a physically imposing man. Indeed, he and the woman were of a height. But he hoped that she would realize how serious he was about this and back down. She matched his steps, one back for each one he took forward.

"Please." She began to wring her hands, but quickly realized what she was doing and let them drop back down to her sides. "I don't have the authority to…."

"What is going on here?"

They both startled at the sharp voice that cut the blonde woman off, and looked towards the doorway. The woman standing there was dressed identically to the blonde. But she was older, her gaze harder. She had the look of a woman who was accustomed to telling people what to do, and knowing that they would do it. Not out of any inherent sense of loyalty or respect, but out of fear.

Yes, he knew that look well.

"Sister Jude! I…I…."

The full force of Sister Jude's gaze fell on the blonde, and her words came to a stuttering halt.

"Sister Mary Eunice, why is the patient not restrained?" she asked, sounding as if she were speaking to a wayward child.

"I'm sorry, Sister! He was sedated; I thought I had more time before he came to. I was just telling him to return to his cot when you came in."

"So I saw," she said, sounding unimpressed. Sister Mary Eunice bowed her head.

Sister Jude strode up to him and snatched the rolled up news reporting booklet out of his hand. "When one of my staff gives you an order, you follow it," she told him, punctuating her words by smacking him in the chest with the paper, holding it there as she locked eyes with him. "Are we clear?"

Her gaze dared him to defy her. He wanted to, but he knew that doing so wasn't in his best interests. At the moment, she held his future in her hands, and they both knew it. Slowly, he backed up, turning to walk back to the bed. He sat and looked up at her expectantly.

She looked back at him just as expectantly. "I asked you a question."

He clenched his jaw. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

He frowned. Uncertain as to what she wanted from him, he could only hazard a guess. "Yes, Sister Jude."

She smiled, a triumphant gesture, before glancing over her shoulder at Sister Mary Eunice. "Find Sister Bernadette and Carl, tell them they are needed in the infirmary. Then go relieve Sister Josephine in the bakery. The afternoon shift will be starting soon," she said, dismissing her.

"Yes, Sister," Mary Eunice replied, very nearly bobbing a curtsey before beating a hasty retreat.

Turning back to him once they were alone, Sister Jude said, "Well then, Mr. John Doe, I hear you had quite the eventful night. Assaulting a state trooper, resisting arrest, and throwing what was, by all reports, a spectacular temper tantrum in Dr. Arden's office."

His brow furrowed in confusion, "That's not my name."

Her eyes flicked briefly upwards, as if appealing to the heavens above. "Yes, I know that's not your name. But until we learn your real name, that is what you'll be called. Unless you prefer Patient #F41461, that is."

"I prefer Rumpelstiltskin."

Sister Jude pursed her lips, fixing him with a disapproving stare before going on as if he hadn't spoken. "Violence against staff members and other patients is not tolerated. Understood?"

"Yes, Sister Jude."

"You will remain here in the infirmary until Dr. Arden has cleared you. The police will fingerprint you when they bring us your paperwork. Then we might actually learn your name."

He didn't argue, even though the idea of learning his name by taking prints of his fingers was preposterous.

Another middle aged, black and white clad woman walked into the room, accompanied by a man dressed all in white. Sister Bernadette and Carl, he assumed. Sister Jude acknowledged them with a nod, before turning back to him.

"Any questions?"

He shook his head, assuming that any questions he did have wouldn't be answered. That seemed to be the trend. "No, Sister."

She smiled, cold and insincere. "Welcome to Briarcliff."


	3. Desperate Souls

_Dominique, nique, nique  
S'en allait tout simplement,  
Routier, pauvre et chantant  
En tous chemins, en tous lieux,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu…_

Music drifted through the air as he was led to the common room by one of the orderlies, the singing growing louder as they drew closer to their destination. He had been trapped in this place for several days, now, and this was his first time out of the infirmary. In that time, he had been jabbed with more needles than he cared to count, had been informed that he tested negative for all the diseases that Dr. Arden had been worried he might have been infected with, as well as the drugs Dr. Arden had suspected he might be under the influence of. That was, apparently, bad news. It meant that there were no easy explanations for what these people had coined 'his delusions'.

Harrison, true to his word, had also been by to drop off paperwork and take his fingerprints. When Rumpelstiltskin asked him if he knew how Baelfire was doing, he had answered with a curt, "The boy is fine." That had been the extent of their conversation.

He had then been made to stand in the center of cage-like contraption, sprayed down with water, and dusted with white powder, this world's answer to bathing, he supposed. Afterwards, he was given undergarments, a pair of blue trousers, a blue button-down shirt, and a pair of white shoes that had eyelets, but no laces.

Now here he was, standing in the doorway to the common room, looking in at the inhabitants. It was not a heartening sight. True, there were some people who were sitting quietly in chairs scattered throughout the room, or playing games at the tables. There was also a woman who stood near the door, banging her head against the wall; a man strapped into an uncomfortable looking white coat that pinned his arms to his body pacing around the room, talking to himself; and a dark-haired woman twirling slowly to the music.

The music.

He looked around, confused. The music was clearly coming from within the room, but not a single person was singing. No instruments were being played. Just phantom music playing with no apparent source, unending and unsettling.

Someone bumped into him from behind, jolting him from his search. He turned to find a woman who looked to be in her early thirties, her blonde hair inexplicably shaved at one temple, scowling at him. "We already have a door, here. You don't need to do its job for it," she said testily.

He frowned and moved further into the room, unblocking the entryway. She breezed by him, but then paused and turned, looking him up and down. Without a word, she stepped up to him and began tugging at his shirt.

"What are you doing?" he asked incredulously.

She kept up what she was doing, ignoring his question. Once she had his shirt untucked, she unbuttoned his top two buttons, loosening his collar, then stepped back to survey her work.

"Roll up your sleeves," she told him. Still frowning, he did so, if only to avoid having her do it for him. She nodded approvingly, "Better."

A man with greasy black hair, standing close enough to have witnessed the exchange, laughed. "Damn, Shelley, he just got here. And he ain't much to look at, neither. You that desperate? Cause I can help you out with that, if you are."

"Fuck you, Spivey," she said dismissively.

"About time you asked," Spivey said with a smirk, making a show of unbuttoning his trousers and stepping closer to her.

Rumpelstiltskin glanced around the room for the orderly who had brought him to the common room, but he had disappeared. Hesitating to get involved, he nonetheless pushed his way in between the two of them, facing Spivey with a practiced sneer. "Ah!" he said, raising a warning finger, before pointing at the other man. "I believe the lady made herself clear."

"Lady?" Spivey laughed. "She ain't no lady, that's for damn sure!"

"Regardless, you should…."

He was cut off midsentence as Spivey shoved him, hard. He lost his balance and ended up on his back on the ground. "You trying to tell me what to do?" Spivey asked, looming over him. "_You_ don't get to tell _me_ what to do!"

Before he could respond, someone else cut in. "Stop it, all of you!" The speaker, a young woman standing by the window, had an accent that differed significantly from the native accent of this region. At least he wasn't the only one here who was far from home. Once she saw that she had their attention, she announced with keen interest, "He's here."

"Who?" Spivey asked. "Bloody Face?"

"Oh! I wanna see!" Shelley practically ran to the window. Her face lit up with a hungry, manic smile, "Ohhhh, he's mine." The woman beside her laughed and shook her head, which earned her a glare. "I mean it! Don't go up against me on this, Grace!"

With everyone's attention elsewhere, Spivey lost interest in Rumpelstiltskin, leaving him to struggle to his feet on his own. No one paid him any more mind. No one except the older woman he had noticed when he first walked in. She had stopped dancing and was staring straight at him as he pulled himself up. When their eyes met, she clutched at the beaded necklace she wore with one hand and quickly averted her gaze, touching the fingertips of her free hand to her forehead, chest, and each shoulder in turn. "Oh Señor, Dios mío, en ti me refugio; sálvame…."

He made his way to the window, casting frequent glances towards the woman. He couldn't understand the words she was speaking, but whatever she was saying, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "What's she saying?" he asked, nodding towards the woman.

"The Mexican? Who knows? No one can ever understand her," Shelley said without interest. She looked back out the window, and after one last wary glance at the Mexican, he did the same. A crowd had gathered outside to watch a young man in chains being hauled up the stairs.

"Who is he? Why is he here?"

"He's a murderer."

He laughed, "Him? He's just a boy."

The lad couldn't have been more than a handful of years older than Baelfire. He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, at the thought of his son.

Shelley shrugged one shoulder, "Well, that didn't stop him from killing women. He'd skin them alive, then he'd use the skin to make masks. That's how he earned his nickname."

"Charming."

She grinned at his sarcasm, and continued. "They say he killed his wife. That's how they finally caught him."

Rumpelstiltskin frowned. "What kind of man kills his own wife?"

"_Allegedly,_" Grace broke in suddenly. "He allegedly killed his wife and those other women. He hasn't stood trial, yet. This is America. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

"I still don't understand why he's here. If they think he murdered people, why isn't he locked away in a dungeon?"

They both looked at him askance at the mention of dungeons, and Shelley asked, "Don't you know where you are?"

"Briarcliff," he answered. Not that anyone had bothered to tell him what that meant.

"Yeah, Briarcliff Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He's here so they can decide whether he's crazy or not. If he is, he stays here. If he's not, he goes to prison."

"The criminally insane?"

"Don't act so shocked. You had to do something to end up here. So, what was it?"

"I didn't do anything."

"That's what everyone here says."

"What did _you_ do?"

"I like sex."

"That's a crime in this world?"

"If you're a woman," Shelley answered bitterly.

"This world?" Grace asked, curiously.

"This country," he corrected, before shifting the attention onto her. "What about you?"

"Me? I did nothing."

Shelley smirked. "See?"

_Dominique, nique, nique  
S'en allait tout simplement,  
Routier, pauvre et chantant  
En tous chemins, en tous lieux,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu…_

The rest of the day dragged out agonizingly slow. He didn't speak much to the others after the mob outside disbanded, preferring to sit by himself and think about how he was going to escape.

After dinner, he was shown to his room, which turned out to be little more than a cell. A cot was centered in the middle of the small space, the only furniture the room boasted. The door locked after it was shut behind him, and once everyone was settled in, the lights were shut off.

The night seemed even longer than the day, and he was awake long before the orderlies came around to rouse everyone out of bed. He and the other men were led to the entrance hall, where the women were already waiting.

Sister Mary Eunice was there, standing beside a white statue of a woman, her smile bright and hopeful as they were lined up in front of her. "Good morning, everyone! Please bow your heads for the morning devotion." Her face brightened even further, as if the most wonderful thought suddenly occurred to her. Looking straight at him, she said, "Being new here, perhaps you'd like to lead us in prayer, this morning?"

He frowned at her, but it didn't seem to dampen her enthusiasm. "Very well," he agreed, trying to recall an appropriate supplication that might suit the occasion. He raised his hands, palms up, and began. "Glory be to the gods above. May they bless this newly dawned day, and all…."

"No! He's doing it wrong!" Another patient shoved his way through the group until he stood before Rumpelstiltskin, angry and accusing. "You're doing it wrong!"

With that single condemnation, pandemonium broke out. More people joined in the shouting, closely followed by the hysterical crying of those who were upset by the yelling. And above it all, his detractor continued to chant, "Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!"

The noise died down immediately when a sharp whistle pierced the air. Sister Jude descended the spiral staircase, all barely contained fury and disapproval. "You are all very much aware of how you are expected to conduct yourselves during morning devotions," she said in a low voice, eyes sweeping the crowd. "Who disrupted the prayer?"

Several fingers pointed in his direction, and he drew himself up angrily. "That's a lie! Sister Mary Eunice asked me to lead the prayer. He interrupted me." He jabbed a finger at his accuser, who wilted under Sister Jude's scrutiny and tried to melt back into the crowd.

Sister Jude shifted her gaze to Sister Mary Eunice expectantly. "I assumed he'd know some proper Catholic prayers," the younger woman said in her defense, before explaining what had happened.

Sister Jude's eyes locked onto his for a moment, before she snapped to the others, "The rest of you, go to breakfast!" Pointing to him, she said, "You stay."

She waited until everyone had filed off down the hall, before whirling on him. "Now you listen here. Your beloved Churchill may get away with dabbling in that pagan mumbo jumbo, but you are no Churchill! I will not tolerate any heathen tomfoolery in my asylum."

"Heathen tomfoolery?" he repeated, not having the slightest notion what she meant by that, or how it related to what had just happened.

"Gods and goddesses. Fairies. Magic. There is one God. Everything else is just make-believe. These poor people have enough troubles without you filling their heads with talk of giants, or elves, or ogres living under bridges."

"Trolls."

"Excuse me?"

"Trolls live under bridges."

"I think you and I are going to finish this in my office." Her tone made it clear that finding oneself in her office was not an enviable situation to be in.

In an effort to avoid the conversation escalating any further, he conceded, "I suppose there's really no rule that says an ogre couldn't live under a bridge, if it wanted to."

His attempt clearly didn't have the desired effect.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You…" she began, but was cut off by someone clearing their throat. She turned to the source, "What is it, Frank?"

"Sorry to interrupt, Sister, but you said you wanted to know when Walker started to come to."

"Yes, thank you."

Turning back to him, she said, "You are lucky that I have bigger fish to fry, this morning. But if I hear one more complaint about you…." She left the threat hanging, unspoken. "Go," she ordered, with a distracted wave in the direction of the cafeteria.

He was only a few steps down the hall, Sister Jude and Frank having set off in a different direction, when he was stopped by someone trying to get his attention. "Psst!"

Standing in the doorway of a side room, just out of sight of where he had been speaking with Sister Jude, was Shelley. She raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Ogres?"

He shrugged. "Not really my favorite subject."

"Bad blood between you?"

"Yes."

She studied him as if she couldn't quite decide whether she believed him or not. Or perhaps she was trying to decide if he believed himself. He forced a laugh, playing the conversation off as a joke.

She laughed with him. "I like you, Rumpel. You're a hell of a lot more interesting than most of the guys around here."

He felt a pang at the nickname. She must have read it in his face, because she asked, "Do people not call you Rumpel?"

"Only my wife."

"You have a wife?"

"Had."

"Divorced?"

"What?"

"Did you go your separate ways?"

"Ah, no. She, uh, she died."

"Oh. I wish my husband was dead, the bastard. He's the one who stuck me in this hellhole to rot."

"I can't imagine doing such a thing to someone I loved. Milah and I…things were difficult between us, but we were trying. Then she was gone, just like that. I couldn't save her."

There was a long and awkward silence between them, after he was done speaking.

"It's a shame you and your husband couldn't work out your problems together," he offered, to break some of the tension.

"Yeah, well, like I said, he's a bastard. I'm sorry you and your wife never got the chance."

He nodded wordlessly.

"Anyway," she said with false brightness, "like I said, I like you. You pushed Sister Jude's buttons, and you got away with it, too! Enjoy that while you can. If she hadn't been distracted, she'd be introducing you to one of her canes, right now."

"She canes patients?"

"Every chance she gets. That's Sister Jude for you; spare the rod, spoil the psycho."

"The men as well as the women?"

"Yep, doesn't matter to her."

"But that's improper!"

She laughed at him. "You're cute when you blush."

"I don't blush," he countered, with all the dignity he could muster.

"Mm-hmm, if you say so. Come on, we should get to breakfast before we're missed."

_Dominique, nique, nique  
S'en allait tout simplement,  
Routier, pauvre et chantant  
En tous chemins, en tous lieux,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu…_

"You missed it!" Shelley greeted him, when he entered the common room that afternoon. He had spent the morning working his first shift in the asylum's bakery. For a few hours, he had almost enjoyed himself. The work was simple and repetitive. It reminded him of his spinning, and for a while he was able to drift into a mindless haze and forget his misfortune.

"Missed what?"

"Kit Walker got tossed into solitary for fighting, less than five minutes after being brought in here. That's got to be some kind of record."

"Who?"

"Bloody Face," she said with an impatient wave of the hand that suggested he needed to do a better job of keeping up.

"Ah."

"Muster up a little enthusiasm, will you? Gossip is one of the only things keeping me sane in here."

He couldn't help the small smirk her words drew out of him. "I thought we were all mad, here."

"Very funny." When she caught his attention wavering around the room, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Hey, they got you all doped up, already?"

"What? No, I've yet to discover where the music is coming from. It's distracting."

It was her turn to smirk at him. When he frowned back, she raised her eyebrows, "You're serious? I swear it's like you're from another century." Indicating that he should follow her, she led him to the other side of the room. Sitting on a table was a wooden box with a hinged lid. The box housed a spinning disc. Indeed, now that it was pointed out to him, it was clear that the music was coming from the device.

"Remarkable. How does it work?"

"Damned if I know. I wish it would break. I'm sick of this song."

"There must be some way to shut it off," he reasoned, reaching for the device to see if he could find a way.

She grabbed his wrist. "You really don't want to do that. No turning off the music. Sister Jude's orders."

He let his arm drop to his side. "What else does the great Sister Jude demand of her subjects?" he asked with deliberate sarcasm, so that Shelley didn't think he actually believed Jude was royalty.

"A list of dos and don'ts too long to, well, list. Wanna play checkers?"

"No."

She rolled her eyes. "Come on, I'll teach you."

They found an empty table to sit at, and he watched as she set up the game. It didn't take long for him to realize he recognized the layout. "Draughts!"

"What?"

"I know this game!"

"That's less of an accomplishment than you make it sound," she teased. "But good, then I don't have to explain it to you."

They were halfway through the first game when an excited voice piped up from right beside him. "Pepper play!"

He glanced over, and jerked back at the sight of the creature starring back at him. It had oversized ears and teeth, a bulbous nose, and abnormally large hands. Its head was shaved, with the exception of a curling lock of hair gathered up into a topknot and held with a ribbon. It took him a closer look to realize that its features weren't overly large. Instead, it was the creature's skull that was too small for the rest of its body.

"Jesus, Pepper!" Shelley said, annoyed. "You're gonna give someone a heart attack one of these days! Buzz off!"

"Sorry," Pepper said, but didn't move.

He ran through a mental list, trying to classify Pepper. "Are you a gnome?" he asked. He hadn't had occasion to meet a gnome, before, but he imagined it would look something like this.

The creature put a hand to its chest and said, "Pepper!"

Shelley sighed. "She's not a gnome."

"What is she, then?"

"She's a person. You can't just go around accusing people of being gnomes. It's not normal."

He scoffed. He was the abnormal one, here? "Well what was I supposed to think?"

"Not that she's a gnome, that's for sure. You want a shot at getting out of here? Don't let any of the nuns hear you say stuff like that!"

"Pepper play?" Pepper asked, tentatively, moving around some of the pieces on the board.

"I said buzz off!" Shelley yelled, and Pepper scurried away.

Shelley looked down at the ruined game and huffed, sweeping the pieces back into the box.

"I take it the game is over?"

She slammed the box onto the table. "I hate this place! I can't take it anymore!" She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. "I gotta get out of here."

"Is there a way out of here? Has anyone ever escaped, before?"

"Not yet. But there's a first time for everything. There's gotta be a way, and we're gonna find it."

"We?"

"Yeah, why not? You're a little weird, but you're not dangerous. Neither of us should be stuck in here with a bunch of freaks and murderers when we haven't done anything wrong."

An irrational part of him, perhaps some holdover from the Dark One, bristled at her assessment of him. "What makes you think I'm not dangerous?"

She gave him an unimpressed look. "Skinny little gimp like you? Please."

"Looks can be deceiving," he said, standing. Why did this turn in the conversation bother him so much? Wasn't that why he had agreed to come to this world? He couldn't be trusted not to hurt people back home. His son feared the monster he had become. But here he could be the man he once was, the man Baelfire wanted him to be again. He should be pleased at Shelley's assessment of him. It meant that Bae's plan had worked. And, for the most part, he was pleased. It was the part of him that wasn't that worried him. "I'm not feeling well," he lied, excusing himself from her company. "I'm going to my room to lie down."

Despite his attempts to leave her behind, Shelley followed him out of the common room, waiting until they were through the bustling entrance hall before speaking. "Oh, come on, I know you're not sick. Look, I'm sorry I called you a skinny gimp." She sidled up closer to him. "I'll make it up to you."

He faltered at her suggestive tone. "That's not necessary."

"Do you know how long it's been since a man has been nice to me? Since anybody has treated me like something more than a common whore?" She spat the word, as if it were poison. He stopped walking, and she took it as an invitation, pressing herself against him. "Don't be mad."

"I'm not," he began, and paused to clear his throat, lowering his voice back down to its proper octave. "I'm not angry at you. And this is most certainly not necessary." He backed up, but she followed, until he was backed against the wall of the deserted corridor.

She shrugged. "Maybe not, but I'm bored. And this is a lot more fun than checkers, don't you think?"

Before he could articulate a response, she slipped a hand down the front of his trousers. Whatever words he might have spoken were lost to the undignified little yelp the action drew from him. She grinned. "You have to be quiet. We're not supposed to be doing this."

"Then we shouldn't," he managed to reason, despite the distraction her fingers were causing.

"You don't mean that," she said with certainty, and he could feel his face heat as he caught her meaning.

"That's not…that doesn't mean…I do mean it! Please stop. This isn't the proper way to go about this sort of thing."

She looked at him incredulously, but removed her hand, though she remained standing uncomfortably close. "What sort of thing do you think this is? I'm just looking to have a little fun with a nice guy."

He floundered for an answer. Did people really give themselves to near strangers, in this world? With no courtship? No expectations? For fun?

"What do you think you're doing, Shelley?"

Carl, one of the orderlies, had managed to approach without either of them noticing. Shelley stepped away from him, not looking the slightest bit embarrassed at having been caught in a compromising situation, and turned to the other man. "What's it look like, Carl?"

"Looks like you're trying to get yourself in trouble. Again."

"You gonna go running to Sister Jude? Tell on us?"

"That is the protocol."

"Is there any way I could convince you not to do that? Nothing happened, after all."

"I'm sure we could work something out…."

Rumpelstiltskin took advantage of their distraction with one another to retreat. The afternoon had shaped up to be nothing more than one embarrassment after another. All he wanted to do was to be left alone for the rest of the day, and hope that by morning he could pretend that none of this had happened.

_Dominique, nique, nique  
S'en allait tout simplement,  
Routier, pauvre et chantant  
En tous chemins, en tous lieux,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,  
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu…_

Shelley flounced down next to him on the sofa. He pretended to be too engrossed with watching the world outside the window to notice her. That didn't last long.

"Jerk."

He glanced at her. She was looking back at him. "Yeah, you," she said, though neither the words nor her expression held any real venom.

"What did I do?"

"Besides abandon me, yesterday? It wasn't just me who would have gotten into trouble, if Carl decided to actually do his job. It's you, too. So you're welcome."

"You seemed to have the situation well in hand."

"We were lucky. I know how to handle Carl."

"And how is that?"

She tilted her head and gave him a look. It was a look that was strikingly similar to one that Milah had given him on occasion. It told him that he was being incredible thick-witted about something. Why she was giving him that look was beyond him. His question had been perfectly valid. He was new here. How would he be expected to know what would and would not serve as bribes for the orderlies? He didn't have anything to barter with, even if he wanted to. For that matter, what could she possibly have to…?

"Oh," he said, awkwardly dropping his gaze from hers.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a long moment. What did he say to that?

"Well don't be weird about it," she said, at his silence. "I don't mind. Carl's an okay guy. And at least he was interested, unlike you."

"I didn't mean to offend you," he explained, looking back up at her. "I simply don't have those types of feelings for you."

She shrugged. "Actually, I think it's kinda cute that you want to have feelings for someone before you'll have sex with them. You're a romantic at heart, I can respect that."

They lapsed into a companionable silence until the relative peace of the common room was suddenly broken. "Can I at least have a pad of paper and a pencil?" He glanced over to see a woman, roughly the same age as Shelley, conversing with an orderly. She held herself tall, chin up, but he could recognize the fearful, desperate edge that crept into her voice, despite her efforts to hide it behind a forceful façade.

"Nope."

"May I ask why not?"

"Sister Jude's orders."

"I see. Does that rule apply to everyone here, or just me?"

The orderly shrugged. "Does it matter? You're not getting it, either way."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful."

With that sarcastic parting shot, she stalked away from the orderly.

"Huh," Shelley said.

"What?" he asked.

"I've seen her. She was in Sister Jude's office a couple days ago. And then I saw her sneaking around the place last night, looking for Kit. She's some kind of reporter. Writes for a newspaper. What's she doing here dressed like a patient?"

He shook his head, not even attempting to guess.

"Hey!" Shelley called out, "Hannah!"

The other woman stopped, looking confused, but the confusion lifted as she recognized Shelley. "Lana, actually," she corrected gently, walking up to them.

"What the hell?"

"My name is Lana."

"No, I mean what are you doing here?"

"Oh." Lana glanced down, blushing. "I was attacked by…something…last night. I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up this morning, Sister Jude had somehow managed to get her hands on signed commitment papers."

"Why? From who?"

"My…roommate. I'm sure there's been some mistake. Sister Jude is only doing this so that I don't expose what I saw. I just need to speak with Wendy, get this cleared up."

"Your roommate? Since when can a roommate have you committed to an asylum?"

Lana took a seat on the couch next to Shelley, but didn't answer. There was silence for a beat, and then Shelley seemed to catch on to something Rumpelstiltskin didn't. "Ohhh, roommate." She put on odd emphasis on the word, this time. Lana nodded.

"That bitch."

"No, Wendy is very nice. You don't…."

"Not her. Sister Jude."

Lana gave a wan smile. "You'll get no argument from me there."

He spoke up for the first time since Lana joined them. "What, exactly, do you mean when you say roommate?" he asked, using the same emphasis that Shelley had used.

Lana seemed startled, though whether it was from his question, or simply that she had forgotten he was there, he couldn't tell. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at him warily. "Who are you?"

He weighed whether or not to give her his name, or go the easier route and use 'John Doe'. Fewer people looked at him strangely when he resigned himself to that made up moniker. In the end, his pause turned out to be too long for Shelley's tastes, because she answered for him. "This is Rumpelstiltskin. He's a good guy, you can trust him."

"Hmm," Lana said. He had the feeling she didn't trust easily. "Rumpelstiltskin. That's an interesting name. Is that German?"

"Scottish, I think," he answered.

"No, it doesn't sound Scottish at all."

"To be honest, I don't know where the name came from."

"You never asked your parents?"

"Ah…no. My mother died in childbirth."

"I'm sorry. And your father?"

"He abandoned me."

"I'm…sorry." Lana looked as if she regretted asking. "I know how difficult that is. My parents no longer choose to speak to me. I haven't seen them in years."

"I was very young. I don't really remember him."

"Were you raised in an orphanage, then?"

"No, I had Aunties who took me in. I don't know if I was actually related to either of them, but that's what they told me I could call them. Neither of them had ever married. They were very good friends, though, and neither had any other family around, so it made sense for them to live together."

Both women smiled knowingly.

"What?" he asked, suspiciously.

"I think your Aunties might have been roommates," Shelley answered with a little grin.

And there was the emphasis on that word, again.

"It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest," said Sister Jude. They turned to find her behind them. She braced her hands on the back of the sofa, eyeing the three of them. "The idea of two homosexuals being allowed to raise a child together is abominable. It's a foregone conclusion that any child reared in that environment would grow up to be a degenerate. You need a mother and a father to raise a healthy, productive member of society. It's no wonder you ended up in here," she said directly to him. Then, to Lana, "You see what happens?"

Rumpelstiltskin felt sick and angry. It wasn't the insult directed at him that bothered him much. It was what Sister Jude was implying about his Aunts. They had taken him in when he had nowhere else to go. They had treated him like their own. They had loved him. He could count on one hand the number of people he'd had in his life who he could say that about. They had taught him the trade that would be his livelihood, the trade that had allowed him to provide for his own family. She didn't even know them. How dare she judge them!

He must have tensed, because Shelley put a warning hand on his arm. He looked over to see her glaring at Sister Jude as if she wanted to tear her throat out. Beside her, Lana looked as stricken as he felt.

Looking satisfied at the damage she had wrought, Sister Jude walked away, leaving them alone once more.

None of them spoke again for a long time.


End file.
